She was expensively dressed, her clothes somber but of fine quality. Her bearing further suggested a woman of some wealth and standing in the community. I tried to identify her, but dared not look at her too boldly. “Madam,” I replied quietly, “you are mistook.” “I think not,” she insisted. “But how came you here?” “I assure you, I am not the person you believe me to be.” “I know what I see. Husband!” she called to her spouse, who emerged from the shop behind us. “Come, tell me that I am correct. See who I have found. Is it not strange?” Her husband peered at me myopically through thick spectacles, uncertain of what or who he was supposed to be looking at. His wife became louder in her assertions, causing one or two passersby to stop to listen to the altercation. “My name is Mistress Carmichael,” I assured her. “I am recently widowed and come to stay with my brother at the mill…” “No, I will not have it! Your features are too familiar to me. I am convinced of the evidence of my own eyes, and you are Anne Hawksmith’s daughter, Bess.”
